


The Morning After The (Long) Night Before

by apolla



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Everything is better and worse, Winterfell, Winterfell clean-up, after the long night
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-05-03
Packaged: 2020-02-10 19:47:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18667165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apolla/pseuds/apolla
Summary: They defeated the Night King and his army of the dead but that doesn't mean everything is OK.It doesn't mean they can even take a breath.And some folks don't want to pause if it means contemplating what the actual seven hells happened last night.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DrHolland](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrHolland/gifts).



> This took hold of me because I saw all that carnage and wondered who the frak is going to clean it up.
> 
> Normally you'd say 'the smallfolk' but how many are left?
> 
> I *love* the fics that show amazing reunions in the aftermath of the Battle of Winterfell... and this is my go at that. I'm sometimes weirdly pragmatic and this feels like one of those times.
> 
> But yanno, reunions gotta happen just the same.
> 
> Enjoy!

It was not over immediately. The survivors might have wanted nothing more than comfort and rest, but there was still work to be done. The dead had returned to death, but scores, hundreds and thousands of bodies had to be dealt with. _Disposed of_.

 

No matter how grim or overwhelming, it was not the kind of duty to be ignored or put off, especially with the number of fallen. The last thing Winterfell needed after the Long Night was disease.

 

Nobody questioned the order to burn the bodies - too much had been seen. Any and all able-bodied grown men and women obeyed the order to take part in the harsh, grisly task of taking the dead out to the makeshift, gargantuan pyre out in the expanse north of Winterfell. Jon Snow led the group and worked as hard as anyone.

 

The location chosen was about as good as any: so many Dothraki and their horses died there that it already had the makings of a mass burial, and it was distant enough from the castle to risk fire spreading into the already ravaged buildings or waste contaminating the water supply.

 

Able-bodied workers were thin in the ground and most carts and other such useful transport had been crushed to uselessness during the battle. The smiths retrieved a couple of small barrows from the forge, which by virtue of being unoccupied at the time seems to have dodged the worst of the damage.

 

Out in the field beyond the now-scorched and broken fire trench, Gendry and Grey Worm worked together to gather the bodies of Grey Worm's Unsullied brethren. They did not speak, by tacit agreement, but worked smoothly as a pair. At the sharp winter sun's height, they paused to drink stale water. They raised their water-pouches to the fallen and said nothing if the other happened to shed a tear. They continued until their battle-weary bodies were all but broken.

 

Sandor Clegane and Davos Seaworth strove to re-wheel a wagon and after much low bickering and swearing, they had a just-about-functioning four-wheeled _thing_. Lyanna Mormont was the first person placed upon it with almost unendurable gentleness by Tormund Giantsbane. Since learning of her heroism, he had stood guard for her tiny corpse, and fuck anyone who asked him to help until that duty was done. Songs were already being composed about the young giant-slayer whose bravery outshone all but could not stop the extinction of her House.

 

He was not so gentle with the wights he all-but-lobbed onto the wagon. At one point he paused, grabbed a body and tossed it onto the wagon bed.

 

'I wondered what the fuck happened to her,' he said to Davos. 'Eh, at least in the dark we couldn't recognise our old friends as they attacked us.’

 

He was a little more considerate after that. Just a little.

 

Not another word passed his lips for hours as he worked tirelessly until Winterfell's training yard is no longer piled high with the dead. The wagon made a dozen trips at least, back and forth.

The yard was stained and tacky with blood, guts, bones and brains.

 

The rain would wash it all away eventually - once the fires had done their job.

 

 

*

 

Some toiled in the fields of the dead, and others dedicated their efforts to caring for the living. After clearing out the Great Hall so that the wounded and maimed could be cared for in one place. Tyrion Lannister took charge of the temporary hospital with Varys, Samwell and Gilly helping him. Maester Wolkan, having discharged his duties to inform the Citadel and their remaining allies southwards, was given charge of the meagre medical supplies and the attempt to make them last longer and go further.

 

If anyone noticed that Sam hadn’t said a word other than to give patients instructions, they said nothing. If anyone noticed how Varys’ hands trembled, they said nothing.

 

Ser Jaime and Ser Brienne were given the task of finding enough food. The stores had been protected in the cellars but the entrance to the cellars was under rubble.

 

Nobody said it aloud but it was true that, with so many dead, the demand on supplies was much reduced. It was not a trade any of them would have made willingly. They made it into the cellars in the afternoon, mercifully soon enough to have the remaining cooks put together a tolerable meal before hunger rendered lightened hearts heavy once more.

 

Lady Sansa dedicated herself to keeping everyone fed and watered, traipsing through the rubble, muck and horror to supply the working survivors. Podrick Payne was her shadow, carrying what she could not manage alone.

 

The Dragon Queen Daenerys dedicated herself to helping her two remaining dragons and along with Missandei, tried to clean the multitude of wounds Drogon and Rhaegar had both acquired. Nobody touched the dragon bones in the yard - not yet, not without permission.

 

The joy of victory was diminished by the scale of their loss and the gargantuan tasks ahead. Few of the reduced group had even had a chance to know their people were dead or alive.

 

Some didn’t dare ask. As long as there wasn’t an answer yet, it wasn’t irrevocably _I’m sorry, but…_

 

And then, partway through the morning, some good news: there were survivors in the fields and amongst the massed dead.

 

Not enough. Six Dothraki, mercifully found before any torches were lit, a dozen Unsullied, and a few Northerners.

 

Alys Karstark was found - maimed but still breathing - under the corpses of dead Ironborn and was carried into the Great Hall by Yohn Royce.

 

It was almost enough to feel hope. Almost enough.

 

*

 

It would take days yet to collect and gather all the bodies from the fields, but in the early afternoon of the first day after dawn, Queen Daenerys, Missandei and Grey Worm said a final farewell to Ser Jorah Mormont at the northern end of the pyre. With a whispered "dracarys" to Drogon, Daenerys had the flames lit, starting with her beloved friend. At the other end, Lady Sansa Stark put a torch to Theon Greyjoy's chest and gave up a prayer to the Old Gods and the Seven that he be judged fairly in the next life.

 

By nightfall on the day after the Battle of Winterfell, the fire was high and bright in the dark, almost as wild and fierce as dragon breath.

 

Nobody went near - too hot, reeking and grim - but nobody could look away.

 

Once the injured had been seen to and the most badly hurt moved into more appropriate rooms, a plain, late meal was served in the great hall. No reference to rank was made except that Daenerys and Sansa had chairs in which to sit. For the most part, they are all quiet and withdrawn, but Podrick sang a few songs to lift them all, just a little, just enough.

They all know what happened in the Godswood - that Arya Stark served Death to the Night King after Theon Greyjoy gave his life for Bran - but if anyone had seen Arya since, they had not said so.

 

'I heard she leapt from a tower,' said one old man.

 

'She was in the heart tree.'

 

'She took the face of a White Walker.'

 

'She made herself invisible!'

 

'I don't think she did it. Must've been the King in the North!'

 

‘Where is she, anyway?’

 

*

 

_to be continued..._


	2. In The Hall of Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya Stark has taken on a duty nobody else wanted and takes it seriously.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the super comments so far!
> 
> I had intended this to be focused on Arya and Gendry but I rather think it may be wider in scope than that... let's see what happens!

The subject of such intense curiosity was in her family’s crypt

 

It was a poisoned space now - none other was willing to enter. At least the yards and fields had the fresh air and chill winter sun… Still, bodies needed to be removed and dusty bones cleared away. The crypt needed to be set a-rights. The dead deserved nothing less after having their peaceful rest interrupted.

 

So, Arya of House Stark, water-dancer, Lightbringer, and Night Kingslayer, worked alone in the dimly lit crypt of her ancestors. The torches were burnt low, leaving the crypt in half darkness.

 

She started with the newly-dead and hoped with each new body she approached that they might be merely sleeping, merely injured.

 

None were sleeping. Arya and Death knew each other well. There were too many fresh corpses. The people sheltering there had been the weak, infirm or the young. Those who had no place in a battle. The enclosed space had been entirely in favour of the dead who rose.

 

They should have sheltered in the storage cellars. Or perhaps not, if the state of the buildings above those cellars was any indication.

 

Die under the rubble of a broken castle or die in a crypt. Either way, Death had its way.

 

The survivors of the Battle of Winterfell were now all acquainted with Death, but only Arya counted it as a familiar companion. The crypt held no fear or horror for Arya, only a job to do.

 

She struggled a little to move some of the bodies - this was not the kind of strength she possessed. She would have to ask for help, which left her feeling faintly queasy.

 

The Dead had smashed their own sarcophagi and it was hard to know what dust was stone and what was bone, and Arya rather wondered if it mattered much. Someone had found a brush and a pan for her to use and she swept at everything on the stone floor.

 

Slowly, very slowly, the dust, bone, blood and muck gave way to the flagstones underneath as she methodically worked along with more diligence and patience than _anyone_ , including Syrio Forel and the Faceless Man, would credit her with.

 

She had a duty to her family and she would see it done properly, even if it meant ignoring every thought in her mind that screamed at her to _stop, don’t bother, just go._

 

Not all who rested in the crypt had risen. The lords buried with iron swords were marked with iron swords had stayed where they ought.

 

Of all the things for which Arya was grateful on this day, seeing her beloved father’s grave unbroken, still and intact was that which had her on her knees thanking the Old Gods with tears burning her eyes.

 

Lyanna Stark’s place was also mercifully undisturbed. It didn’t seem unlikely that her brother buried her with a sword too, and Arya took a moment to look upon the carved stone face of the aunt she only ever known as a legend to live up to.

 

‘Am I really so much like you?’ She asked, voice echoing in the dark, empty air. ‘Should I blame you for everything?’

 

Lyanna Stark’s stone face did not reply so Arya returned to her labours, collecting up old bones and sweeping dust.

 

All would be burnt. Just in case. Arya stuck Valyrian steel into the Night King herself, but she still wanted to be sure. Sure that the dead would stay dead as they should. As they deserved to.

 

Time passed without a break. She was used to working hard, used to pushing herself beyond the limits her body tried to impose. She had never expected her training at the House of Black and White to be put to this use.

 

In the near-dark it might have been dawn, twilight or high noon. She neither knew nor cared.

 

Footsteps. Heavy. Determined even, as they stomped down the steps. Arya continued on without even glancing back to see who it was.

 

‘You make a lot of noise for one boy.’ She sounded odd to her own ears. Light-hearted, as though there hadn’t been an entire bloody battle since the last time she saw him.

 

A rough chuckle behind her. ’ _Boy_ , is it? How soon they forget.’

 

Even through the murky light, Arya's sudden blush was obvious. She finished collecting up a set of bones from an unidentified ancestor then turned to see Gendry stood on the stairs with a steaming bowl in each hand. He stared at the collected bodies by the stairs a moment.

 

She peered at the bowls: broth. 'Is one of those for me?'

 

He tore his gaze away from the dead and looked at her for a long, silent moment. ’Aye. It's... not bad, considering. Come.'

 

She did and, taking one of the wooden bowls, sat on the steps. He followed suit, edging away from the dead as much as possible without colliding with her.

 

He said nothing and she felt compelled to speak: ’Are you... well?'

 

'As can be expected.' He showed her how his arms and hands were blistered. 'Those are from the fires and these are from the hammer.'

 

'Ask Sansa for ointment. I'm sure-'

 

'It's been done. Healing's all it needs.'

 

'Even so-'

 

'And what about you? Have your wounds been seen to?'

 

'I cleaned myself up.'

 

'Arya-'

 

'I know what I'm doing.'

 

'I've never had much doubt of that, milady.' Balancing his bowl on his lap, Gendry reached out to push her hair away from the gash on her head. 'That looks nasty.'

 

'It looks worse than it is.'

 

His fingers trailed - most tentatively, ready to stop on command - down her face and to her neck.

'What about these?'

 

'Oh.'

 

The Night King’s fingers had not been around her neck for long, but he had almost squeezed the life out of her. The bruises left were not quite ordinary and had the appearance more almost of a burn.

 

‘Ary-‘

 

‘Looks worse than it is,’ she repeated although this time she moved away from his touch.

 

He was willing to believe it the first time, but this was something else. He pulled his hand away from the damage. ’I don’t believe you.’

 

‘I won’t beg you to.’

 

Gendry leaned his head against hers, forehead against her hair. ‘You’re alive.’

 

She smiled a little, in spite of herself. ’I am.’

 

‘I don’t care about anything else. Just that.’

 

‘I knew you would live.’

 

‘Oh?’

 

‘With such a stupidly large hammer. I mean, really-‘

 

‘What are you saying about my hammer, milady?’

 

‘That it’s stupidly large.’ A smile tugged against her mouth at the other interpretation. ‘Nothing else.’

 

‘Right, milady.’

 

‘Stop calling me that.’

 

‘As you wish.’

 

Her stomach rumbled.

 

Gendry nudged her shoulder gently with his own. ‘Eat up, before it gets cold.’

 

They ate quickly and in silence.

 

‘Have you been down here on your own all this time?’

 

‘These are Starks. It’s my duty.’

 

‘I’ll help.’

 

‘Aren’t you tired?’

 

‘Aren’t you?’

 

‘No.’

 

‘You should be. I saw how hard you were fighting.’

 

‘I lost the staff you made me.’ Her shoulders drooped and she refused to meet his gaze as she spoke.

 

As soon as she caught his eye again, he looked away. ’I’d make you a thousand spears to toss away before I’d lose _you_.’

 

‘It was perfect. While I had it, it was _perfect_. Thank you.’ Arya, quick as a fox, pressed a kiss to the side of his face.

 

Her stomach rumbled again.

 

‘Come on.’ Gendry said, getting up with screaming, weary muscles. He held out a hand to help her up. ‘What do I need to do?’

 

Arya jumped up with more energy than he had but much less than her usual. ‘You could…’

 

‘Yes?’

 

‘I left the… I don’t know what we’re calling anyone. There are a couple of bodies of the… the recently dead that I couldn’t move. Would you-‘

 

‘Of course.’

 

‘And then we need to take them… to the pyre.’

 

‘As you wish.’

 

At her direction, he lifted the body of an old man almost as it it were nothing. While she continued to clean up after her ancestors, he went off to find a cart to take the bodies out of Winterfell to the fires.

 

He either returned very quickly or she lost herself so much in her work that she missed the time as it passed.

 

‘I have a barrow to get through the castle. Too much rubble for anything else. We’ll get help once we’re outside.’

 

‘Thank you, Gendry.’

 

‘You only call me by name when something very good or very bad is about to happen and I don’t know that this is either.’

 

‘I’m grateful, stupid.’

 

‘Ah now, there’s my lady.’

 

They both froze. The difference between _my lady_ and _milady_ was tiny but profound.

 

Arya’s grey eyes shone in the low light. ‘Am I?’

 

‘Always.’

 

At that, Arya bounded across to him. She wrapped her arms around his torso and rested her face against his chest. ‘I lied.’

 

A pause. ‘Oh?’

 

‘I didn’t know. That you’d survive. I was scared.’

 

Arya felt his lips against the top of her head. ‘How do you think I felt knowing you were… wherever you were?’

 

‘Better than being down here,’ she jested, then immediately felt guilt settle like a stone in her belly: if she’d been in the crypt she could have protected the weak. Her blood ran cold and she moved to pull away from Gendry. She _should have-_

 

‘Arya, I can hear you thinking and you’re wrong-‘

 

‘I should have-‘

 

‘You _killed_ the _Night King._ Seems to me you were where you were meant to be. Where you needed to be.’

 

‘I know, but I should’ve done more. Should’ve been quicker or-‘

 

‘Stop, love. That way madness lies.’

 

‘Perhaps.’ She relaxed against him again for just a fleeting squeeze. ‘Come on. Work to do.’

 

They worked together to move the bodies up the stairs and out of the crypt.

 

Arya had worked so hard to clean up the crypt that the wreckage outside was somehow a shock, but she forced away any and all feelings about seeing her family’s home all but destroyed.

 

Night had fallen while she was hidden away but the funeral pyre was so huge that it lit the sky entire in flickering orange and red. The castle was mercifully upwind but the smell of burning flesh was still in the air and made her want to gag.

 

The barrow required a team effort: Gendry’s brute force to get it moving and Arya’s balance to keep it upright. They reached the cart in the training yard and found Sandor Clegane waiting.

 

‘Heard you needed some help, girl.’

 

‘From you?’

 

‘I’m what’s here.’

 

‘Then, yes.’ She returned his gaze with steady defiance. ‘Thank you.’

 

‘Thanks from Arya Stark?’ He replied. ‘Now I know the fucking world ended.’

 

‘Fuck off.’

 

‘That’s better.’ He tipped the barrow so that the bodies fell inelegantly on the ground. ‘Leave this with me.’

 

Several trips to and from the crypt until the bodies were all moved. Once the newly dead were all on the cart, stacked with as much dignity and care as anyone could have managed, Clegane pushed it into motion. ‘I’ll take it from here.’

 

Arya hesitated. ‘There’s still the old bones.’

 

Gendry picked up the barrow-handles again and she saw how hard he had to try for such a simple, easy action.

 

She reached out to touch his arm. ’You should get some sleep.’

 

‘So should you. We can finish in the morn-‘

 

‘I can’t.’

 

He pushed the barrow back towards the crypt then. ’Come on then. Sooner we start, sooner we finish.’

 

She stifled a yawn. ‘Is that the kind of wisdom for which the residents of Flea Bottom are rightly not renowned?’

 

‘Nope. Brotherhood.’

 

Arya bit back a sharp remark about the Brotherhood. Instead, all she could think of was Ser Beric Dondarrion dying over and over again _for her_. Gendry blinked back sudden tears for Ser Beric, for Thoros of Myr, dead in the frozen emptiness far north of here. Of Anguy and Hot Pie and their travels together through the Riverlands.

 

There was more history than just Stark bones between them, but at least they could and did make short work of that.

 

Once the crypt was cleared, if not yet quite clear, Arya stopped at the heavy iron door to look down into darkness. Her duty, at least for this day, was done.

 

Ghost padded along to her, red eyes gleaming. She held her hand out and he butted his head softly against it.

 

‘Thank you, Ghost,’ she whispered. The wolf cocked its head at her and left through the chaos more like the pup he’d once been that the huge direwolf he now was.

 

Gendry leapt out of Ghost’s way. ’What next?’ He asked.

 

‘I really want a bath.’

 

‘Hot water’s probably hard to come by.’

 

Arya laughed out loud, the sound ringing around the broken stones. ‘How little you know. Follow me.’

 

*


	3. Beyond the Cold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the super comments so far - I appreciate them all!
> 
> Sticking with Arya and Gendry for now but there'll be more from other folks soon!

The Godswood was as quiet, still and serene as it ought to be. It had been the first part of the castle to be cleared of the dead - such violence was surely an affront to the Old Gods. The blood of the slain Ironborn had stained the snow and earth as they fell in their defence of Bran.

 

Arya stopped in front of the heart tree, almost exactly where Bran had sat, and knelt. With her eyes closed, she said a silent prayer to the Old Gods. The blood-red leaves fluttered in the breeze.

 

Gendry hung back, waiting for her. These were not his gods - in truth, he had none - and he would not interfere.

 

He had never been in a Godswood in the North where the old faith still held power. He had seen southron godswoods where no belief still held, where the heart had been cut out. He’d seen septs and septons, and he’d met acolytes of R’hllor and the Drowned God. He’d listened to Arya’s whispered explanation of the Many-Faced God. None of it had meant much to him. He knew and believed what he could see, hear, touch, feel. He believed that the dead could rise because they had, but to attribute any of it to gods or a single god was a step too far for him.

He would not deny that the Godswood was something special. Even scarred by battle, there was a strong sense of peace here. Perhaps not peace, exactly. But something that set the hairs on his arms to tingle and his breath to deepen and his heartbeat to slow to something almost like ‘calm’.

 

He looked around, understanding that this was also the place where the Night King had fallen at Arya’s hand. It was almost too much to contemplate, too profound a moment.

 

Arya finished her prayer and stood. ‘Come on, then.’

 

‘Why are we here?’

 

‘Ah.’ She held out her hand, and he took it without hesitation. ‘We need a bath.’

 

‘Yes, but why-‘

 

He let her lead him across the Godswood, through trees to a place where the air steamed over a shining pool of water. It was so warm here that no snow had settled and the ground around the pool was covered in thick green grass and moss.

 

‘Winterfell,’ she said, starting to unlace her leather jerkin. ‘Is built over hot springs. They keep the castle warm. There are hot springs under the castle. My mother used to bathe in the enclosed springs there, but I always liked it here best.’

 

‘Are you seriously suggesting that we bathe out here? In the _open_?’

 

‘It’s not really open.’ She dropped her jerkin to the snowy ground and waved her hand. ‘Almost nobody knows these are here - just us Starks. And now you. Come on.’

 

Gendry didn’t move a muscle, partly through hesitation and partly at the sight of Arya’s increasingly exposed skin. Her skin was bruised, mottled purple and furious red. He felt fury rising through his entire body and, not for the first time, realised that the Baratheon words suited him very well.

 

‘If he weren’t already dead, I’d kill the Night King for that,’ he said.

 

Arya smirked. ‘I know. Come _on_.’

 

He glanced around once more, not wholly satisfied by the privacy the trees brought them but he could feel the warmth of the pool radiating outward, and the sight of the girl he loved sliding into the dark water was enough to send his fingers pulling at laces and buttons before the rest of his brain caught up.

 

The water was glorious. It soothed their aches and pains as much as anything ever could and, for a while, they were content to float in separate silence.

 

But, when Arya closed her eyes all she could see was the burning ice of the Night King’s eyes. So she swooshed through the water to Gendry and reached for him. Like her, he was a mass of bruises and wounds, but he had come out of the Battle more or less intact and without serious injury.

 

She glanced back in the direction of the heart tree. The Old Gods might favour the Starks now, but Arya knew this was neither permanent nor guaranteed.

 

His fingers brushed against her shoulder. ‘We’ll be all right. In time.’

 

‘I know.’ She leaned into his hand, the warmth of it soothing in a way even the hot springs were not. ‘A nice hot bath will set us right. And then… whatever comes next.’

 

He closed his eyes and sighed. ‘Will it ever be over?’

 

‘Once I’ve completed my list.’

 

‘Arya, you don’t have to-‘

 

‘But I will.’

 

‘You’ve done your share. More than.’

 

She pulled away, contact between them broken, and looked at anything but Gendry. ’I’m not finished.’

 

‘Will you ever be finished? Will you ever be able to say “enough”? There will always be terrible people in the world. Will you kill them all?’

 

‘If I must.’

 

His hand returned to her shoulder, gentle, without pressure. ‘You won’t have to. You’re not alone anymore. And… I’m sorry I wasn’t there. Even though…’

 

‘Even though what?’

 

‘Seems to me everything happened as it was meant. But I’m still sorry you were alone for so long.’

 

Arya flicked at the water, sending light splashes across the pool. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

 

‘Of course it matters.’ Two large, battered arms wrapped around her then. ‘Being alone… it can be like poison.’

 

‘How would _you_ know? With your Ser Davos and your _three_ women.’ There was a bite to her words, but no true spite, and she settled against his chest just the same.

 

His voice was warm and deep, right next to her ear. ’I know what it’s like to be alone, Arya. After my mother died, I was alone. Tobho Mott was a master, not my family. After the Red Woman took me, and Ser Davos helped me escape, I was alone again.’

 

‘Clearly not _always_.’

 

‘More of that and I’ll start thinking you’re jealous, milady.’

 

She tried to wriggle away, but his arms held firm. ’I’m not jealous! I wanted to make sure I wasn’t wasting my time with a green boy, is all.’

 

His laugh rumbled through his whole chest and so into Arya’s torso. She shivered.

 

‘I was alone then,’ he continued. ‘As much as there might be people around me. Flea Bottom and King’s Landing are busy, but they’re not kind. Travelling with the Brotherhood and with Lord Snow… none of this is like having a family.’

 

‘I can be your family,’ she whispered, the echo of a scared and grieving child in her soul.

 

‘You _are_ my family,’ he replied. ‘And you are _also_ my lady. I mean- if you’ll have _me_. _’_

 

The last of the tension in Arya’s body slid away. ‘Well, then.’

 

They might have stayed in the hot springs for an hour or four. It hardly mattered.

 

Their injuries were more apparent now they weren’t hidden by dirt, and their clothes felt all the more ruined for putting them over newly-clean bodies.

 

Arya inspected his blistered hands and arms as they walked out of the Godswood towards what was left of the castle. From here, the glow of the pyre set the night sky in an orange hue so unnatural that they averted their eyes.

 

Instead, Arya looked at _him:_ his torn clothes and the blisters on his hands and arms from fire and wielding the hammer. Given how tough he already was, given how hard he worked in a room full of heat, smoke and flame, his battle must have been intense indeed. Gendry had not complained once about his blistered skin but, looking now, she could see how flaming red and angry it was.

 

‘You need to get more ointment,’ she decreed.

 

‘It’s fine.’

 

‘You made it worse by helping me.’

 

‘And then the bath helped, so-‘

 

‘You really need to-‘

 

‘It’s not that bad-‘

 

‘I killed the Night King, and I say you have to get-‘

 

He barked out a laugh. ‘You’re going to be insufferable, aren’t you?’

 

‘Only when it suits me.’

 

‘You can only use “I killed the Night King” once a day.’

 

‘We’ll see.’ She paused at the doors to the Great Hall. They could hear voices and activity even through the thick wood. ‘I can’t put it off any longer.’

 

‘You can, but you’ll have to do this sooner or later. Might as well be now.’

 

Arya nodded and together they pushed open the door.


End file.
